


Coalescence: Fusion

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry [20]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lifebondings among Jedi are rare, for a reason. Sometimes, the journey is harsh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coalescence: Fusion

The cabin had been designed for comfort on all levels, but it was especially apparent the moment Obi-Wan stepped into the building’s only bedroom.  The bed was a glorious creation, sunken into the floor, and one had to actually take three steps down to reach it.  It was large even by the standards of Coruscant’s elite, but a nest of the most comfortable sort, set up with heavy quilts, soft sheets, and eclectic, embroidered pillows. 

They were on the bed now, sitting together amidst the colorful bedlam.  Dinner was long past, clothing had been hung carefully, packs emptied and put away, items stored.  The cabin was pleasantly warm, and Obi-Wan had enjoyed the sight of his mate stalking around the bedroom in nothing but his skin before they had taken the steps down to the bed together.

At the edge of his consciousness Obi-Wan could feel the bond pushing at them.  It disliked this long wait it had been forced to endure, long months of forcing it back again and again as his health (mental just as much as physical) forced them to wait to finish consummating it.  Speaking their vows once more, accompanied by the mental strength of so many Jedi present in the temple, had awoken those rainbow threads with a vengeance.  He and Qui-Gon were unlikely to have a moment’s real peace until it was done.

“Are you ready for this?” Obi-Wan asked, staring into his mate’s, his _spouse’s_ eyes.  He himself felt no doubt.  Qui-Gon had already seen the worst of him; and, perhaps, the best of him as well. 

This last step, this fusion of the bond on all levels—mental, physical, and spiritual—was the culmination of both his healing and his parents’ push to see Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon legally bound.  As Obi-Wan had said once before, and as Abella had made sure to stress over and over, sex was only a part of the bond’s compulsion.  There were other aspects to face, and it was generally why Jedi didn’t Lifebond on a whim. 

Sometimes, the journey was harsh.

Qui-Gon took a deep breath and let it out, his bare chest rising and falling in a way that Obi-Wan recognized; his mate was tense, though he was doing his best to work his way through it.  “I have to be,” he said at last, cupping Obi-Wan’s cheek with one of his large, warm hands and smiling.  “You were.”

“Oh, that’s utter bullshit,” Obi-Wan retorted, grinning.  “That was less ‘ready’ and more ‘Let’s go jump off a cliff now, hey?’”  He became serious again.  “Love, I’ve seen you at your worst, even if it didn’t happen for you now.  I will love you no matter what.”

To his surprise, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and turned his face away.  “No,” he said, his voice soft.  “You haven’t.”

“Then I will,” Obi-Wan said, and reached out, resting his hands on the back of Qui-Gon’s neck and feeling the soft, silky fall of Qui-Gon’s hair caress his skin.  “I mean it, Qui.  I will love you.  Unless you have a Sith name I don’t know about, you’ve hardly outdone me in the vileness department.”

That made Qui-Gon smile again, though when he opened his eyes and faced Obi-Wan once more, sadness lurked in those cerulean depths.  “And I love you,” he said, and leaned forward, allowing their foreheads to touch.

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Leaving the Dark Side behind, returning to the Light, is like climbing up out of a deep well—one hand-hold, one foot-rest at a time, and hoping the light doesn’t blind you when you finally reach the top.  Anyone who has ever dabbled will tell you that it seems bottomless; anyone who’s ever Fallen will tell you that it has a bottom, and once you reach it, there is no light to be found.  The hard part, at that point, is not figuring out how to climb out, but finding the motivation to be interested in doing so in the first place._

_Time knows many who have Fallen, and knows well those who have fought to climb back out of the well.  Few make it entirely.  Most are bathed in shadow throughout their lives, and their journey, their climb, continues, even beyond death._

_Those few are literally few, even by the universe’s standards, who manage to return to the Light in their own lifetimes.  These few become strong, for they are aware of just how deep the well is._

_The Jedi Order forgot that once, there was great respect for those who Returned.  Easier to banish them, to forget their names, to alter their histories: Banish the Dark Side, and it can do no harm._

_They didn’t learn—or perhaps it is more correct to say that they didn’t_ want _to learn._

_After eons of forgetfulness, now there is one who has Returned…and one who is still climbing._

_Obi-Wan Kenobi is somewhere above the center, though at times he’s not sure of that.  Sometimes the center feels lower, sometimes higher.  He can see the bottom, far below.  He can feel the coldness of it, the despair of it._

_He keeps climbing, anyway, because he can see the light above.  Sometimes it’s closer; other times it feels impossibly distant.  He ignores what his eyes tell him—_ your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them _—and places his faith in what he knows.  He is always climbing up, always getting closer to being free of the shadows.  That is the truth that he clings to._

*          *          *          *

 

 _Time, Qui-Gon thinks, watching the stars pulse, bright lights strong in the Force.  Time eats_ everything _._

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan stands in the desert, naked and uncaring, for anyone who would see is hundreds of kilometers beyond him—and who would want to see this body anyway, with all of its scars and weathered skin and white hair, marked by a decade of desert life?

He’s standing naked outside in the daylight not because he’s decided that suicide by desert is an option, but because it’s raining.  The second time it’s rained on this miserable rock since he arrived. 

Most days, he’s accustomed himself to Tatooine, and the life he leads, and finds a measure of peace with it.  Lately, though, he has been angry, a negligible taunt of feeling that he can’t trace the root of.  Being alone, truly alone, has started to leave him wakeful, irritable. 

Lonely.

He feels water slide across his skin, and it’s an aphrodisiac of the headiest kind, for this sensation has become one of the most desired.  It’s the only thing that comes close to touch, and there is a particular touch he wants most and has never felt—but he can pretend.

His hand unconsciously opens, fingers spread, and he wants, oh, how he _wants_ —

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon watches the Padawans and young Knights, and can’t remember what his own Knighting was like.  He’s certain it must have happened, but right now the memory won’t come.  Of course, he got knocked on the head so many times during his imprisonment on Tholatin that it’s a wonder he remembers anything at all.

Licia is a gracious young Jedi whom he barely recognizes.  His first meeting with her comes only in flashes:  a young woman covered in dirt, she kept swearing at him and ordering him to stay conscious.   

He almost smiles, the barest twitching of the lips.  She will be a great Jedi, a credit to T’ra Saa’s teaching.   

That kills the smile.  He misses Xan.  Misses him with an ache that feels like it will never die, and it’s hard to remember that Xanatos isn’t dead, just _Fallen._

He hates that damned word so very much.

Knight Licia is surrounded by those who love her, and for one moment he wants the same again, to be touched and to feel it, to feel like he’s still _alive_ —

 

*          *          *          *

           

Obi-Wan sits in the hologram, counting stars.  He does this a lot, of late, since returning from Ord Mantell.  Well, when he can—it seems as if a sudden rush has come to his life, and class work has multiplied, training has intensified (when his still-healing leg can stand the physical aspects), and time is getting harder and harder to grasp.  It feels like he’s being shoved along, and for the most part, he doesn’t mind.

When it’s too much, Obi-Wan comes here.  Except for that one retrieval, when his leg was still in pieces, not even Master Yoda bothers him.  For as much use as the map gets, he is now ritually ignored, his robes just a backdrop against which a few star systems sometimes show.  He honors those who ignore him by holding as still as he’s able at these times, so that the galaxy remains stable.

There’s no one right now.

He _wants_ there to be someone, but that someone never even enters the room when Obi-Wan is in it.  He understands, and their relationship is better, but Obi-Wan still wants his Master to see him, to see him _here,_ and know why. 

He drops his head onto his arms, which are braced on his knees, and wishes—

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon stares up at the ceiling of his small bedroom, and thinks idly about ripping down the fake star systems his twelve-year-old self once pasted to the surface, the better to watch them in the dark.  He doesn’t like them as much anymore, but dammit, those crappy plastic stars are _his_ , and Qui-Gon’s not going to remove them until he’s certain he wants them gone.

He can hear his Master in the living room, talking with—oh, what had his name been?  Qui-Gon frowns for a moment (he has trouble with names, sometimes, and it’s a flaw he’s working desperately to correct) until the answer comes to him:  Sifo-Dyas, a Jedi Master who had been serving the Outer Rim for so long that half of the Order barely recognized the man.  He and Dooku had apparently been friends when they were children.

Friends.  Considering how his Master lectures Qui-Gon on relationships and alliances and politics and maneuvering and so much shite that it makes his head pound, Dooku still has this friendship to call upon. 

Qui-Gon rolls over onto his side and curls up, blinking hard.  He is _not_ crying.  He is not lonely.  It is true that he has but two friends his own age—he tends to do better with individuals far older or far younger than himself—but that doesn’t mean anything right now.

He is _not_ lonely.  He can go out right now, if he wishes, and talk to this Sifo-Dyas person, and Dooku might even allow it.  Or, he might raise a dramatic dark eyebrow, an expression that always speaks volumes, and Qui-Gon would be banished back to his room.

He concentrates for a moment and the lights dim; he concentrates a second time and the candle on his bedside table sputters.  He blinks again.  Not lonely.

 _Fuck you_ , he rails.  He might lie to his Master about his happiness, if only to avoid an argument, but he is not going to lie to himself.

Qui-Gon _is_ lonely, and is likely to stay that way.  He hasn’t seen Micah or Tahl in a year and a half; his Master prefers the Mid-Rim to Outer Rim assignments and fills their world with such a swarm of politics that their time in Temple is rarer than almost anyone’s.

He frowns and the candle sputters again, once more failing to light.  Qui-Gon sighs, and wishes—

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan is resting on his knees, and for once is grateful for the Sith’s insistence on the amenity of constant hot water.  He’s left the shower running, letting the steam build.  It’s the best way he can ensure that the wounds on his hands don’t become infected—he’s tried a healing trance, even just basic Force healing, but his body doesn’t respond.  Or the Force doesn’t respond.  He’s not sure which.

He doesn’t cry out when he yanks the next shard of black tile from his hands, but he squeezes his eyes shut, and tears of pain fall unheeded down his cheeks.  At the very least, here is a reason why he is not interested in the Dark Side—his temper plus his fists equals A Very Stupid Thing he has done.  Obi-Wan imagines the shower wall will be repaired the next time he vacates the room.  His hands, however, are not so fortunate.

There is a pile of tile chips on the floor next to his knee.  Glossy black contrasts with the white backing of the original, unglazed ceramic, though quite a bit of that is stained red. 

Obi-Wan yanks the next shard, one of the largest, from his left hand, and this time he cries out.  It hurts, there’s no shame in it hurting, but oh, is there shame in _this_.

He lifts his head, ignoring the water beating on his back.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, because he _wanted._   Obi-Wan closes his eyes again, lowers his head, and tries to squeeze his hands into fists.  His fingers bend, but only just, and the white-hot agony is like just vengeance.  “Who is the more foolish, here?” Obi-Wan whispers again, and laughs a little, since it is something his Master used to say quite often when he caught his young charge guilty of some mischief or another.

He wonders what words Qui-Gon would have for him now. 

 

*          *          *          *

 

In three days, Telos has become hell.

Crion is ready to declare war on the nearest systems in an ultimately foolhardy bid to gain dominance over the sector.  He has money, but the governor does not have the armed forces to back up his threat.  Now that Qui-Gon has managed to inform the populace of their beloved governor’s intent, the denizens of Thani are in an uproar.  Qui-Gon rides the wave of rioters straight to Crion’s front door. 

This mission is a disaster, if he’s ever seen one, and to top it all off, his Padawan is missing.  Oh, he knows Xan is alive, but the stubborn little nit is ignoring all of Qui-Gon’s requests through their training bond.  Neither of them can truly talk to each other, but emotions ring clear enough, and on Xanatos’s end of the bond there is a shield so dense that only the barest twinges of his Padawan’s presence can be felt.

 _Xan,_ he thinks, slipping away from the rioters to find his own entry into Crion’s government stronghold.  _You and I are going to have a very serious talk when we return to Coruscant._

The Force tingles, touches him, and the fingers are icy.  For a moment he stops and rests his hand against the wall, stunned by what the Force is trying to tell him.

_No._

He shakes his head, finds an appropriate ledge to leap to, and then uses his elbow to smash in a window on the third level.  The rioters are still shouting in the front, and it won’t be long until the door gives way to their anger, but Qui-Gon will have the time he needs.

It’s the first time he has prayed for the Force to be wrong.

Crion is all but waiting for Qui-Gon when he walks in, and he has to steel himself against the sight of Xanatos: smug, cold-eyed Xan, lounging on a chair behind Crion, unconcerned with both the impending civil war on Telos and his father’s plans for conquest.

No.  Unconcerned is the wrong word. 

Gleeful.  Pleased.

Too late Qui-Gon understands his Padawan’s blatant enthusiasm for the mission they were assigned, why he hadn’t been worried about what his Master knew was to be his Trial.

“Are you sure this is the path you want to take?” he asks Xan, because he’s not just going to let him go this easily, not after they’ve been through so much together.

“Qui-Gon, I’ve always chosen Telos over the Jedi,” Xanatos answers, and despite the coldness, there is a flicker of sadness in his eyes.  Qui-Gon can’t help but take hope in that.  Sadness is, after all, cousin to regret.

Then Crion acts to end the lives of every being that is trying to invade his stronghold, and Qui-Gon has only one second to save Thani’s enraged population.  Instead of hundreds, only one life ends…but it is the end of hope, too.

Xanatos turns stricken, grieving eyes to him—and then his pale blue eyes, usually so filled with mischief (perhaps a touch of arrogance, too) burn with rage. 

He barely remembers the fight they have, though at one point he wonders:  _Did I really train this child?_   Because Xanatos has lost his skill with a lightsaber, and his Padawan had been tricky and sly, slender and quick; all of that seems to have been eaten by anger.  Now there is nothing but crude hacking and screaming.

It ends with his blade at Xanatos’s throat.  Xan is goading Qui-Gon to kill him, tells him that it’s obviously just what Qui-Gon wants, what he’s always wanted.  There never could have been love between them, and now there will be only hate.

He doesn’t hate Xan.  He doesn’t know _how_.

Every single bit of his training, of his life spent devoted to the Jedi Order, tells him that Xanatos has embraced Darkness, and his life must be forfeit.

Qui-Gon doesn’t know how to kill Xan, either. 

When given his life, Xanatos doesn’t offer gratitude, or forgiveness, or anything that means that this nightmare might end sometime soon.  There is only spitting, vile hatred, and the hiss of burning skin when his Padawan brands himself with his dead father’s broken ring.

Xanatos is gone when the natives of Telos finally break their way into Crion’s former base of operations.  Qui-Gon is declared their savior.

He can barely fucking _breathe_ and there are people all but dancing around him.

Qui-Gon escapes the racket somehow, and when he finds himself on the outskirts of the city, gasping for breath like he’s been running for miles, his lightsaber is still ignited.  He disengages the blade, his eyes burning.  He had it clenched so tightly in his hand that he’s torn open the skin of his palm, and the hilt is slick with blood.

 

*          *          *          *

 

He’s back in that damned cell, the one with the window that led nowhere and the ’fresher that would have horrified any sensible maintenance worker.  The captured screw, the one that Obi-Wan uses to tear the deep gouge into his arm, is not the best implement for committing what could be termed ritual suicide.  He thinks, randomly, that the next time he’s up for killing himself, he’s going to choose a much more efficient, quicker method than death by rusty, dull screw.

The floor soothes his skin when he slumps down onto it, cool against the abraded, bruised skin of his cheek.  Then it warms, because his own blood is pooling around him, seeping its way through cracks and into clothing and it’s almost womblike, the feeling it gives him.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The next time Qui-Gon chooses to get himself killed, he’s going to select a much more efficient, faster, less dirty method.  Lightsaber sounds appealing.  Drowning.  Speeder accident.

Well.  Perhaps not drowning.  That doesn’t sound much more pleasant than repeated beatings, starvation, frostbite, broken limbs…

It’s actually strange; he expected harsh treatment, but not lingering torture.  The Tholatins on both sides of the negotiating table had seemed rather decent, if angry at each other.

Then negotiations had failed spectacularly with an assassination that not even the Force could have prevented, all hell had broken loose, and instead of a treaty, he was trying to negotiate a cease-fire.  A prisoner trade.  Supplies allowed to cross enemy lines.  Medical treatment for prisoners as well as wounded soldiers and civilians.  Anything to stop the violence.  Old enmities ran deeper than he’d previously suspected, and it was too late now to put that information to use.

When he’d been caught by the raiding party, Qui-Gon had one moment to make a decision…

…and really, it hadn’t been a decision at all, had it?  What had he been doing, really, these past few years? 

The floor of his cell is cold and not soothing in the slightest.  He’s stopped shivering, which is a sign he knows isn’t good—it’s bad.  Very, very, very bad.  If his body isn’t trying to generate heat anymore, and the temperature doesn’t get warmer, and they don’t give him some _blasted clothing_ , he won’t last the night.

That’s the soothing part.  At least his Master isn’t anywhere nearby to rub salt in the wound and rumble about how he’d been right all along.  Relationships led to devastation, or whatever the last big blowup had been about.

He tries to bend the fingers of his right hand, and they will not budge.  One of the Tholatin interrogators likes to break fingers.  Repeatedly.  If by some twist of fate he is rescued, Qui-Gon has doubts that he’ll ever be able to use his hand again.

Does he _want_ to be rescued?

He shifts position, trying to find a comfortable spot to lie where there is none, and forces himself to really, truly, answer that question.

He wakes after losing consciousness, blinking his eyes in the darkness, and realizes that he doesn’t know.

When he wakes again, there is warmth all around, and his head is pillowed in a lap.  There is a moment of confusion—this doesn’t match memory _at all_ , and the person holding him, creating that warmth, is not Padawan Licia.

“Obi-Wan,” he whispers, and suddenly he knows the answer.

“Better,” Obi-Wan whispers back, and he smiles at Qui-Gon.

 

*          *          *          *

 

There’s no blood, and there should be.  Obi-Wan blinks at the lack, and there’s a scar on his arm instead of shredded cloth and skin and blood, and a hand on his shoulder rouses him.

“This place stinks,” Qui-Gon says, kneeling next to him, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world for both of them to be in a cell in Sidious’s hidden residence, this little corner of hell on Coruscant.

“It does,” he replies, his voice a cracked wreck.  “Needs a good cleaning.”

Qui-Gon holds out his hand, and Obi-Wan hesitates, wanting and not-wanting because what is he, really?

“Not this,” Qui-Gon murmurs, and there is truth in his eyes and his presence in the Force is alive with it.  “You chose, remember?”

He does.  In more than one way, he chose.

Obi-Wan takes the hand that Qui-Gon offers, and feels.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan takes Qui-Gon’s lightsaber from him, gives the blood on the hilt a cursory glance.  “Well.  Can’t have that,” he says, and is rubbing the blood off with the sleeve of his robe.  Qui-Gon wants to tell him to stop that, because it’s _his_ blood, _his_ failure, but Obi-Wan is cheerfully ignoring those thoughts.

“There,” Obi-Wan says a moment later.  “Much better.”

Qui-Gon tries to protest when Obi-Wan grips his hand, but does he really want to protest?

“Damn, you did a good job with this,” Obi-Wan says, grinning, and the feather-touches of his fingers leave healing in their wake, and the torn skin of his palm heals before Qui-Gon’s eyes.

“Nothing else will heal like that just did,” he whispers, feeling again the full pain of it, the shock, the breaking of his heart because it was _Xan,_ it was XAN—

“Time does,” Obi-Wan replies, and in his eyes there is belief—and love.  He hasn’t let go of Qui-Gon’s hand.

“No,” he finds himself saying.  “Time eats,” and he has no idea where that thought came from.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Does time eat this?” Obi-Wan asks him, amid the water still pouring from the shower head, the tiles that are black and white and red from the rivulets of blood that run from Obi-Wan’s hands, mangled and broken and torn.

“Well,” Qui-Gon says, kneeling down next to Obi-Wan, heedless of the water and blood that soaks his trousers.  He reaches out and touches the other man’s hair, which is drenched and almost-red from the water—not the blond it was, yet not the white it is swiftly becoming.  “I don’t advise eating the tile, either.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan only blinks at him.  Then there is a hesitant, shy smile on his lips, and it brings warmth back to his eyes, which had seemed frozen and grey a second before.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Qui-Gon takes Obi-Wan’s hands in his own, those poor mangled fingers and gaping wounds.  In this place, healing is like breathing, and in a short time he is holding hands that are unblemished, if wet.  “There is no reason for sorrow.”

“Yes, there is,” Obi-Wan says, and tears form and fall from his eyes.  “But not this.”

“No,” Qui-Gon agrees, and kisses Obi-Wan’s fingertips.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The candle lights; Qui-Gon smiles, because there is a form that is actually just about his size settling against his back, and an arm gets thrown over his hip.  “Your Master is a twit,” his companion says.

He grins, still staring at the candle flame.  With both of them present, lighting the stubborn thing was so easy it was like breathing.  “You shouldn’t say that.  I have to live with him, Ben.”

Ben snickers and then kisses the back of Qui-Gon’s neck, which is bare and he _hates_ that stupid Padawan cut, he looks ridiculous with it even though Ben would never say such a thing.  “He _is_ a twit, though.  ‘No friends for you, Padawan!  But oh, hey, meet my boyfriend.’”

He sputters a surprised laugh.  “Do you really think—?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ben says, a grin in his voice, his Coruscanti lilt more pronounced than usual.  “Dignified he may be, but shagging they definitely are.”

“You, channeling Yoda?  Is weird,” Qui-Gon says, still laughing.

“The troll is Master of us all,” Ben replies, and snuggles in closer, his nose a warm point on Qui-Gon’s skin where his neck and tunic meet.  “Still feeling lonely, m’love?”

“Who could be lonely with you around?” Qui-Gon retorts.  “You never shut up!”

“Oi!” Ben swats his shoulder.  “You’re the noisy one when we make out, I’ll have you know.”

“Prove it,” Qui-Gon says, rolling over.  He’s face to face with an imp with dark red hair, dancing green-grey eyes, and a huge grin.  “I am the paramount example of silence, I’ll have you know.”

Ben snorts.  “Buggering liar, you are,” he says, and kisses Qui-Gon.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan jerks his head up when he hears footsteps, because he hasn’t realized anyone was approaching and while he is glad he is left alone in the star map, he doesn’t want to be caught—

“I should have been here sooner,” Qui-Gon says, and suddenly his Master is in the map with him, and the gentle curve of the Corellian system is a pattern of light on his cheek.

He tries to protest.  It’s probably the most useless protesting he’s done in his life; he can’t even manage to form words before there is a finger pressed against his lips, shushing him with a touch.

“No,” Qui-Gon insists, and takes his stuttering Padawan into his arms.  Obi-Wan hasn’t felt this secure in months ( _years!_ ).  He is breathing too fast, probably on the verge of panic, but it’s not anxiety that’s hitting him so much as grief that’s been far too long delayed.

“I should have been here, because there is one thing you have never done,” Qui-Gon murmurs, and Obi-Wan is suddenly _sobbing_ —huge, wrenching, painful, horrible sobs that he’s been chasing away for months while trying to attend to living and training, because he _misses_ her.

“Tahl was your friend, too, and you’ve never grieved for her, not in this time and place,” Qui-Gon says, just holding him, expecting nothing, giving everything.  “I’m so sorry.”

There’s something not quite right about the apology, something that strikes Obi-Wan as being off.  “But it wasn’t—it wasn’t—”

“Who I am or was doesn’t matter this time,” Qui-Gon tells him, and the arms around Obi-Wan tighten.  “I’m only here to give you what you denied yourself, and what was denied you.”  Then a kiss—a real kiss!—is being planted on Obi-Wan’s head.  “You were always loved, Padawan.  One way or another.”

“Really?” he asks, because right now it seems unbelievable.

“Truly.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“You _are_ alive,” Obi-Wan insists.  He’s resting his chin on Qui-Gon’s knees, looking up at Qui-Gon with a playful expression on his face.

Qui-Gon reaches out, traces the curve of Obi-Wan’s cheek with his fingertips, and there is warmth and vitality right in front of him, so easy to touch.  “I feel so…”

“Unbalanced?”

He nods.  Unbalanced is as good a definition as any for how Qui-Gon feels.

Obi-Wan smiles.  “I understand.”

Qui-Gon manages to smile back, because that is truth, and it’s a truth that none of those damned therapists and Healers and mind healers and annoying old farts in robes could ever dream of.

“Old farts in robes?” Obi-Wan asks, and his face lights up in a huge grin.  “By the by, do you still have these boots?” he asks, and Qui-Gon, amazingly, finds himself laughing—

 

*          *          *          *

 

The hand that he’s left outstretched is suddenly held, and Obi-Wan opens his eyes because there is heat pressed up against his back, heat that no rain can diminish, and _gods_.

“It’s a shame I have no memory of this,” Qui-Gon whispers into his ear, and then there is insistent, nibbling kissing happening to Obi-Wan’s neck, and he moans in abandon as the touch becomes stronger than the wet caress of Tatooine’s rain.

“Now you do,” Obi-Wan says, and turns—

—and he is buried in Qui-Gon, sweat dripping from his forehead, from the ends of his hair, and strong arms are around him, holding him close as they rock together, tiny movements that send sparks up his spine and tremors through his body. 

“Gods,” Obi-Wan whispers, because just behind his own senses he can feel what Qui-Gon feels.  This is no echo—these are feelings that are just as strong, just as true, as his own.  He is just as much the one lying on his back, loving the fierce pain-joy of deep penetration, as he is the one on top, enveloped and captured and breathing and _alive—_

“This. Is—the most—” Qui-Gon closes his eyes, panting to catch his breath, and Obi-Wan can sense his mate gathering his thoughts, as well; there are _no_ shields between them, not for this.  “If I ever figure out thinking again, I will have a word for this.”

Obi-Wan nods, because he understands, and his brain isn’t supplying much for new vocabulary at the moment, either.  “Word.  Definitely needs a word,” he agrees, and thrusts again, because the slight rocking just isn’t good enough any longer.

Qui-Gon hisses in a breath in response, his teeth gritted together, and then he _growls_ at Obi-Wan, sitting up while pulling Obi-Wan closer, and locks their lips together in mimicry of every memory they’ve shared.  “Harder,” Qui-Gon whispers into Obi-Wan’s mouth, and Obi-Wan can only close his eyes and comply, driving his cock into tight hot warmth.

Qui-Gon is on the verge of orgasm and Obi-Wan can feel it like it’s his own, and when they come it is at the same moment and he _knows_ it.  It’s like a double-blind is peeled from his mind; he feels every bit of pleasure and joy as he sobs his release against Qui-Gon’s shoulder.  There are words being whispered into the skin of his neck, nonsense in the verbal sense but in the mental it is an unending flow of love, of wanting, of devotion that is unlike any poetry Obi-Wan will ever write.

He is still crying when Qui-Gon brushes a hand through his hair, and knows he isn’t the only one.  It just seems ridiculous to cry when he is this blasted _happy_.

“’m happy, too,” Qui-Gon says, his words stuttering out between gasps for breath.  “Sod happy.  Still don’t have words.  Will get back to you on that, though.”

Obi-Wan laughs and tries to catch his breath and fails, but he doesn’t mind.  They are both a mess, he can’t quite disentangle his thoughts from Qui-Gon’s, and they bask in contentment. 

 _Sex in the rain,_ Qui-Gon ponders a moment later.  _If it weren’t winter, I’d be asking the weather for a favor, Ben._

 _Definitely not something for the Temple gardens on Coruscant,_ Obi-Wan agrees.  _But who’s to say we can’t come back?_

“Speaking of coming,” Qui-Gon begins, and Obi-Wan groans, because puns are _his_ territory, dammit!  “There’s a massive bathroom in this cabin.  Showers mimic rain quite nicely, don’t you agree?”

Obi-Wan lifts his head and looks at Qui-Gon, who seems far too pleased with himself, and his cerulean eyes are bright and alive with pleasure and love.  “I _adore_ showers,” Obi-Wan says, and laughs when Qui-Gon’s thoughts dwell on the color emerald.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The bathing area had a wonderful shower, with many nozzles and different angles.  Obi-Wan would never have suspected that Falaft had such a bunch of hedonists lurking about.  Then Qui-Gon opened a door with a stairwell beyond it; curiosity led them down into a cavern with a hot spring lapping at a rocky shore, and the shower was temporarily abandoned.

“By the Force, no wonder they keep this place secret,” Obi-Wan said, ditching his towel and wading into the water.  It was too hot, and yet it was heaven.  He found a deep part of the natural pool and slid all the way underneath the water, feeling embracing warmth surround him.

 _I was wondering what was heating the cabin_ , Qui-Gon replied.  Obi-Wan could hear him with no difficulty whatsoever, and guessed that he always would.  Shields were slowly re-establishing themselves, but as far as Obi-Wan was concerned, they could take their damned time.

Qui-Gon prodded Obi-Wan in the shoulder as he waded past.  _If you stay under there much longer, you’re going to cook your brains._

 _My brains are already cooked, thank you very much,_ Obi-Wan retorted, but he surfaced just in time to witness Qui-Gon find a spot in the pool deep enough for his own dunking.  There was steam in the air, but the spring was perfectly clear, so he could watch his mate’s hair fan out in the water as Qui-Gon released it from the bindings Tahl had put in hours before.  The long locks rippled in the water, and Obi-Wan watched them in bemused fascination until Qui-Gon surfaced.  Bronze hair only just touched with gray hung from his head in long, wet ropes that clung to his arms and chest.  Obi-Wan couldn’t resist walking through the water until he could touch them; Qui-Gon’s hair was like wet silk beneath his fingertips.

Qui-Gon put two fingers underneath Obi-Wan’s chin and lifted.  Obi-Wan met his mate’s eyes, still feeling dazed, and smiled when Qui-Gon chuckled at him.  “Love, I think you’re a bit bond-drunk.  Your pupils are blown.”

“’M’not the only one,” Obi-Wan said, wrapping his arms around Qui-Gon and enjoying the feel of slippery, wet hot skin.  “In fact, this water is just about perfect,” he continued, and stepped back, holding Qui-Gon’s gaze while his hand tracked a wet path down Qui-Gon’s abdomen, until he caught and held the prize that had willingly risen to meet him.

Qui-Gon whimpered.  “Two days ago, I would have been saying that I wasn’t _that_ young, still,” he said, hissing out the last when Obi-Wan used his thumb to tease the sensitive spot at the head of Qui-Gon’s cock. 

“Two days ago, we were still not fully bonded,” Obi-Wan pointed out, his words stuttering to a stop when Qui-Gon found his aching shaft with both of his large, capable hands.

“Oh, _gods_ yes,” Qui-Gon breathed, and kissed Obi-Wan.  Obi-Wan tried to make a noise of complaint when one of the hands went away, but only sighed in bliss instead when Qui-Gon’s arm curled around his waist and pulled him closer. 

“Touch me!” Obi-Wan begged, and the hand on his cock tightened before beginning to move up and down, slow and tight.  There was some strange element to the water, and what could have been unbearable friction was slick and so gods be-damned _good_.

He gave thought to the fact that he should have been reciprocating and discovered that he already was, his hand stroking Qui-Gon’s cock in perfect mimicry of what Qui-Gon was doing to him.  Their shields didn’t fall so much as melt into each other, and Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and moaned through his clenched teeth.

“Oh, make that sound again,” Qui-Gon insisted, his voice a low rumble.  _I have to hear that again—_  

“Qui,” Obi-Wan managed, and then Qui-Gon was lapping at his collarbone in the perfect spot, his tongue leaving a path that felt hotter than the spring water.  Then licking became teeth, nipping and biting, and he groaned aloud, trying to thrust harder into the hand that held him.

“Oh, fuck—oh, my Ben,” Qui-Gon gasped, and the hand on Obi-Wan’s cock sped up, delicious friction that was almost pain. 

 _Oh, Qui-Gon Jinn, how I love you,_ Obi-Wan thought, as every muscle in his body tightened and hit the plateau, every nerve alight.  _How I love you,_ Force _how I love you--!_

 _Come for me, let me feel you come,_ Qui-Gon said to him, pressing their lips together and thrusting his tongue into Obi-Wan’s mouth, velvet heat alighting him.  They were both trembling, panting—Obi-Wan wailed as he thrust hard, his orgasm hitting so hard it was like it had been pulled from his core.

Qui-Gon crushed him in a bone-creaking embrace, his cock pulsing in Obi-Wan’s hand, and he made a sound that was part-strangled cry, part-victorious shout.  “My Ben, my Obi-Wan,” he whispered.

 

*          *          *          *

 

They were floating in the water, boneless and relaxed, watching reflections of the water and the light from an electric torch in the wall dance cross the cavern’s ceiling, when Obi-Wan realized their shields had more or less stabilized.  “Are you all right?” he asked, even though the question felt almost absurd.

Qui-Gon had his head completely back in the water, so that it was lapping against his cheekbones, but he could either still hear Obi-Wan’s voice, or felt the intent behind the question.  “I know it’s impossible, but I really wish it _had_ been you, there, each time,” he answered.  “Though I daresay Dooku would have tried to make your life hell.”

“Oh, like he didn’t do that already, in a sense?” Obi-Wan replied, rolling his eyes.  Qui-Gon snorted out a quiet laugh in response.  “I…would have liked to have grown up with you,” he said, after a moment’s reflection.  “Can you imagine, the pair of us?”

“We would have driven them all mad,” Qui-Gon said with absolute certainty, and Obi-Wan laughed as their hands found each other in the water, fingers lacing together without a thought needed.

 

*          *          *          *

 

When Qui-Gon awoke the first time the next morning, it was because he felt Obi-Wan getting up, still driven by the impulse born of his healing to rise at dawn.  Feeling no particular urge to move yet, Qui-Gon stole Obi-Wan’s abandoned pillow and went back to sleep.

The second time he woke up, he felt more like himself and less like a bond-driven mess.  That particular item was a thrum of steady strength and contentment, and he was treasuring it with every breath.  Showering felt mundane in comparison, but he did it anyway, with a pang of regret for the intermixed scents that he washed away.

 _They’ll likely be replaced in record time, sod,_ he told himself, and smiled at the thought.

Qui-Gon slipped into his robe and wandered out into the cabin’s main living area, which had a couch but no vid screen.  In the screen’s usual position was a fireplace, complete with old-style mantel, and Qui-Gon approved of the choice.

The kitchen held tea but not Obi-Wan; while sipping at the former, brewed strong and still hot, he found one of Obi-Wan’s leather-bound journals on the table, still open to the last page his mate had touched.  Qui-Gon pulled the journal closer, curious, as he hadn’t even realized Obi-Wan had one of them on the planet, much less that he had brought it along on their honeymoon. 

Obi-Wan’s scrawl seemed more active than usual, less fluid and more frenzied, and once he read what had been written, Qui-Gon understood why.

 

_Farther and farther_

_down the line_

_It comes to me_

_that I’m not blind_

_And before me I see_

_this faded tree—_

_whose leaves mark time_

_and thoughts aren’t mine_

_Which holds a key_

_to learn to breathe_

_and see the sun_

_born above;_

_Before me I see_

_a faded tree_

_Whose time has come_

_to learn to breathe—_

_I’d love to help, but_

_I_

_Can’t_

_SEE._

 

He found Obi-Wan outside, dressed in leggings and a shirt but nothing else, meditating on the ground.  Snow had fallen during the night, and Obi-Wan, usually sensitive to cold because of his life on Tatooine, was ignoring it.  His expression was less serene and more of a frown, though when Qui-Gon approached on bare feet, enjoying the sharp pain-contrast of the cold, Obi-Wan opened his eyes and smiled at him.

“You’re sitting in the snow,” Qui-Gon observed.

“You’re standing in it.  Which of us is the more foolish?” Obi-Wan countered, his lips quirking up in a mischievous smile.

“Likely the fool who decided to wander out without boots, but he is far from the only fool present today,” Qui-Gon retorted, offering Obi-Wan his hand.  “Problems, love?” he asked, after they had exchanged the first kiss of morning, both of their tongues tasting of tea.

“Merely more of the same,” Obi-Wan said, shrugging.  “Had a nigh-useless dream, poured out frustration, came out to meditate.  How has your morning been, Qui?”

“Excellent,” Qui-Gon replied, taking Obi-Wan’s hand and tugging, encouraging their return to the cabin before his toes went numb.  “It’s a new day, I’m with you, and I’m wearing absolutely nothing underneath this robe,” he confided.

“How perfectly scandalous of you,” Obi-Wan said, a wide smile on his face.  “You never know when someone will take advantage of such a state.”

“Exactly my point,” Qui-Gon grinned back, and the moment the door shut out the elements he had an armful of Jedi Master, and all was right in his world.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Sometime past midnight, Obi-Wan pried his eyes open and stared groggily at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had awoken him.  He’d almost fallen asleep again, lulled by the heat his bedmate was producing, when he heard the noise once more.

“Fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” he grumbled, stumbling up the bed stairs and making his way blearily into the main room.  The noise he’d heard was now much louder, more demanding, and spoke of great irritation and impatience.

Obi-Wan unlocked the door, opened it, crossed his arms, and stared down at the noisemaker.  Teya blinked up at him, the picture of perfect feline innocence.  His thick black coat was sparkling with tiny white diamonds of fresh snow.

“Seriously?” Obi-Wan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Meff,” Teya said, and shook himself so that the snow fell off of his fur and onto the block of duracrete that made up the cabin’s front stoop.

Obi-Wan grinned and waved his hand inside, a clear invitation that Teya wasted no time in accepting.  “Spoiled brat.”

“Meff,” Teya agreed, the cat’s long tail as straight and proud as a flagpole as he followed Obi-Wan into the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the bed.

Icy paws awoke Qui-Gon, who swore in protest while hissing in a startled breath.  “Seriously?” he rumbled at the cat, who was purring a pleased greeting.  Teya swished his tail before settling onto Obi-Wan’s pillow, and proceeded to knead his claws in Obi-Wan’s hair.

“You know, I think if I try to leave this cat here, the little bastard will hitch-hike transports all the way to Coruscant,” Obi-Wan said, and winced when Teya’s claws threatened to pierce his scalp.

“Think so,” Qui-Gon agreed, scratching Teya’s ears before laying his arm across Obi-Wan’s waist and snuggling in closer once more.  “But there will be stern conversations about missions.  He can’t follow us _everywhere_.”

Teya meff’d again and swatted Qui-Gon in the face with his tail.  Qui-Gon sighed, Obi-Wan laughed, and Teya seemed to declare the matter settled.


End file.
